Pretty Boy
by PSYchOtiC-teNdencieS
Summary: He speaks the words softly, his eyes becoming distracted and unfocused. I smother a gasp as his hand brushes gently against my cheek. He grins impishly at my unease, leaning in a little closer. [slight tendershipping, meaning shounenai]


**A/n**: Merp, hello! I promised myself I wouldn't do any more one-shots, given how craptacular they tend to be. But I decided to give this one a try. It's a little break from figuring out how to get past writer's block for the _Angel Flying... _sequel.

I based this off of the fifteen minutes I'd seen of a French movie. I just walked in on some scene, thought it looked cool, left, and wrote a tiny ficlet containing the same basic ideas. One line is practically a quote... heh, my bad.

Anywho, this is a _tad_ a/u-ish, taking place in Europe I guess. Near the sea somewhere. Or something. Meh, just go with it.

* * *

The ocean isn't blue. Not the clear, sweet color it's said to be. It's green, and it's gray, and it's muddled.

I look again over the rail, down at the ugly water. My head hurts. I pull back, stumbling slightly.

What am I doing here?

"Hey!"

The voice makes my blood freeze. I want to hide, but can't make myself move fast enough. It's like a nightmare; I've no control over my body.

A hand lashes out and snatches my arm, jerking me around so that I'm facing the man who's caught me.

"Che cosa state facendo?"

Oh no... I hadn't counted on this.

"Repondami!" he demands, shaking me. I squirm slightly against his grip; it's starting to really hurt my arm. I can't help looking surprised when he loosens it a little.

"...Non parlate italiano?" he asks, voice gentler.

"Please... I don't... understand," I can hardly believe that this quivering, broken little voice is mine.

"Inglese..." he mutters to himself it seems, his eyes brightening with realization. I can only stare blankly into the dark orbs.

It's late; there's a light source on the deck, but it's faint. I can still make out his basic appearance; his skin reminds me of mocha... with just the slightest hint of cream.

"Tu ne parles pas français?" he tries. His voice is unexpectedly rich and full, bringing unbidden shivers up my spine.

Again, I simply look back at those deep, almost black eyes. I can't understand his words... but I like to hear him talk. I like his voice.

"Siete molto bei, ragazzo," he speaks the words softly, his eyes becoming distracted and unfocused. I smother a gasp as his free hand brushes gently against my cheek, and it becomes hard to breathe. He grins impishly at my unease, leaning in a little closer.

"Très joli..."

He gently rakes his fingers through my hair, and my heart attempts gymnastics; skip, run, leap.

His hair is a fairly long, premature gray, partly covered by a dark wool hat. A long, winding scar covers much of his left cheek; it looks like the doing of a knife...

...That's right... I'm on a barge... alone... with a sailor... who can do whatever he wants with me...

But I can't bring myself to panic. As one bewitched, I obey the gleam in his eyes that demands that I be with him.

"...Pretty," he whispers unsurely as my mouth drops open slightly in shock. He fumbles for a moment for the next words.

"Pretty... boy."

His hold on my arm has relinquished, and his hand has untangled itself from my hair. He's backed a short ways away from me, looking a little self-conscious.

I feel myself slowly smile at him. I can't help it. I hesitantly place a hand on my heart.

"Ryou," I breathe.

He looks slightly confused, and starts to imitate me. I shake my head, and pat my chest again.

"Ryou," I repeat, starting to feel primitive.

He nods this time, understanding.

"...Bakura," he replies, hand on his own chest.

I smile again, trying to get him to as well. I don't know why he won't. He looks so... guilty...

"Che cosa sta accadendo su là?"

We both are caught off-guard by the commanding voice. I catch a brief glimpse of his panicking eyes before he grabs me, possessively, and steers me to a crate to hide behind. I can't see him. I can only hear his voice, wavering slightly as he wards the interrupter off.

Hiding me... like a treasure...

...like I've never been treated before.

The talking has stopped, now; the other crew member is gone. He comes back to me, and beckons that I step out. As I do so, the wind that I had taken a brief refuge from hits me once again at full force. I tug slightly at my thin sweatshirt, bracing myself against the cold.

He notices, and grants me a little warmth by carefully wrapping his coat around me; he doesn't bother to remove his hands from my shoulders, keeping us in close proximity. I'm staring again; mystified again.

"Why... avete andato? Why... leave?"

He struggles with the words; words so familiar to my own ear.

"...I don't know why," I admit, looking away. A familiar emptiness settles in my stomach.

Suddenly his arms are around me, pulling me against him, and I'm holding onto him so hard, just to make sure he doesn't leave me. I'm crying; people push me away when I cry. He only holds me tighter.

He pulls back a little and takes off his hat, pulling it over my head. After looking me over he chuckles lightly.

"Maintenant, tu es le marin," he comments playfully, coming in so close to me that he briefly touches his nose against mine, making me smile a little.

He looks away from me for a moment, then takes my hand and walks me slowly to a metal staircase; the one I'd used to get on the boat in the first place.

"Partir," he mumbles, releasing my hand. I stare, and remove the hat and coat, which he takes hesitantly from me.

We gaze at each other again, and then he tears his eyes suddenly away from me.

"Je ne t'ai pas vu," he shields his eyes with a hand, and makes a sweeping gesture with the other. I don't understand...

"Leave."

It occurs to me only now that he probably has a duty to report me. But... he wants me... to just go. Like he'd never even seen me.

I turn my eyes hesitantly to the exit, and put a hand on the railing. I look back at him, and feel the need to stay by his side for the rest of my life slowly diminish next to the prospect of going home. He's letting me go...

After quickly pressing my lips against his, one last good-bye and thank you, I run up the stairs, which rattle slightly under my weight.

* * *

**A/n**: Okay, so did everybody realize at some point that Ryou was a stowaway? A friend helped me out a little by pointing out the holes which I kinda only sorta patched up... heheh. One of her comments was, "Wah, Ryou's such a hot slut!" 

This is of course in reference to the kiss, which I put in there for god knows what reason. It's supposed to be pretty chaste, so I told myself it was okay. Maybe I'm just in denial..

And you have to admit that an Italian/French Bakura is pretty original. I used a site to translate the Italian phrases, so they may be a little off, I'm afraid. But I do speak a little French- vive la France!

In my mind, I pictured that Ryou's possibly non-existant British lineage could play into the location of the fic. He could just be visiting relatives, and after a bad day, he decided to run away, then changed his mind.

This is not wholly unrealistic. The idea of running away usually sounds good- until you actually _do_ it. Ryou honestly didn't think that he could turn back at that point, and possibly wasn't going to before Bakura encouraged him to.

I also pictured that Ryou's family life wasn't ideal. He never got the support he needed from them, and therefore has low self-esteem (thus the title, _Pretty Boy_, playing on his disbelief of being beautiful, as Bakura only has called him). His running away could have been a small cry for attention, though likely mixed with a need to be alone. However, this does not mean that the situation is severe, or that he can't get past it. Therefore his returning really is in his best interest. They're family... they're something.

So! This commentation is way too long! Please _review_ and point out my other flaws -or, even better, a few strengths. Consider it a birthday gift (my birthday is in fifteen minutes).


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